Stolen Moments
by LaceyBird
Summary: A collection of one-shots. Those stolen moments we never got to see during the series. Molly and Captain James. No particular order.
1. Paris

**AN: This came to me whilst waiting for Xfactor. I apologise if it's not the best piece, but I had to get it down on 'pen and paper'. Hope you enjoy it. Unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own. All rights are, of course, the BBC's.**

**Please read and review! :)**

**GB **

**xox**

**Paris**

Despite the heat of the day, Afghanistan falls victim to cooler nights. The breeze is sharp, is chilled enough to send goosebumps across Molly's skin as she lays back against the plastic roof of the camp's toilet block, eyes focused entirely on the bright stars as they twinkle high in the sky. Her mind wanders through the days events; the easy patrol through the little village, the little girl learning how to walk over dusty pathways, holding on to her Mother's hand for dear life, the Farmer with four goats that offered her one in return for keeping his home safe. She smiles, mind flowing towards her Mum and Dad, her brothers and sisters, wonders if they're missing her, struggling to cope without her, or if they've simply learned to move on, pretend she was never really there in the first place.

Her eyes sting, lids heavy as exhaustion sets in. Even after four months, the daytime heat is a struggle, the kit is still heavy, weighing her down, makes it difficult for her to move limbs. She closes her eyes as another soft breeze sends shivers through her body, is just too cold and too shattered to move, to carry her tired self back to her tent, where her bed - less comfortable than the roof, she notes - is waiting. She gives in, lets herself slip away to places where there are no wars, only laughter and family and friends.

"Come to Paris with me," a voice, low and rough, whispers into her ear, startles her awake. She yelps in surprise, grates her elbow against the rough roof, grazing the skin enough to sting, as she bolts upright, heart hammering. She rubs at her eyes, makes them focus on a sheepish looking Captain James who's sitting a few inches away from where she'd been sleeping.

"Shit, Sir. You almost gave me a Sean Connery!" she scorns, doesn't sound half as firm as she should do, just because he is her CO, and she has just been caught sleeping where she shouldn't be.

"A what?" Capt. James' brow furrows in confusion as he tries to decipher her choice of words, put the phrase together in common English to make sense.

"A heart attack," Molly corrects, forgets that her comrades are less than fluent in cockney slang, despite the amount of time she spends with each of them. "What are you doing up here any way?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Dawesy," Capt. James counteracts, an eyebrow arching as he leans back on his hands, watching her, visually tracing her face.

"I was watching the stars," she says simply, tearing her gaze away from his dark, commanding eyes and returning it back to the black sky, tries to ignore the way her skin prickles, goosebumps spreading over her arms, and this time, it's not because of the cool air. "I don't get to see 'em much back home."

"You can see them plenty in Bath," James says, and she can feel his eyes on her, takes every bit of restraint not to give in and look back at him. "You don't even need to sit on top of the shitter." Molly laughs at that, a quiet but full sound, something that James relishes, wishes to hear more of, tries to remember it, locks it away somewhere at the back of his brain where it's safe from harm. "It's no place for a lady, Dawes."

"I'm no lady," Molly scoffs, looks over at him, had almost forgotten just how close he's been sitting to her, drinks in those chiselled cheekbones, the sharp jawline shadowed by dark stubble. "It's the only place I can be alone, Boss." Quieter, honest, raw.

"It must be tough, being the only female in the platoon."

"Nah, it's all right, Sir. They're all top blokes here, I've dealt with worse," Molly says, smiles a little, doesn't like the way James' eyes darken, his brow creasing.

"You have?"

"I can promise you, them Taliban ain't got nothing on some of the geezer's I've had the luck of meeting around London on a girls night out." She shrugs one shoulder casually, the mood having shifted, feels heavier. "I can handle my own." It's said as a promise, and he nods.

"I don't doubt that, not for a second."

Molly smiles, reverts her gaze back to the sky, leans back on her hands, is very aware of Capt. James' being just a hairs width away. She chances a glance out of the corner of her eyes, is slightly relieved to see he, too, is staring up at the great unknown, the worries of war temporarily forgotten as they bathe in the beauty around them, smoothing out the lines on his forehead, around his eyes, makes him look younger.

"Can I ask you something, Boss?" Her voice is quiet again, full of curiosity, brows knitted together when he turns to face her.

"Anything," he answers simply, and she hesitates, only for a second, wonders if she really needs to know anything that could lead to providing answers about his personal life.

"Why did you sign up?" she asks anyway, because she realises, in that moment, that she wants to know every last detail about him.

"Would you believe me if I told you it was a rebellion?" he asks, his eyes twinkling, reminds Molly of the night sky.

"Doesn't sound like you," Molly scoffs, raising an eyebrow.

"My parent's wanted me to be a doctor, and I wanted to be anything but," James shrugs, doesn't seem offended by Molly's outburst, instead smiles at her honesty, likes the way she thinks she knows him, realises he wants her to know every piece of him. "What about you?"

"Me?" Molly asks for confirmation, because she can't imagine why James would want to know anything about her.

"Yeah, Dawes, you."

"Oh, well, I got trollied on my birthday, chundered outside the recruitment office. Went back the next day, figured I had nothing to lose by trying. I didn't think I'd actually get this far."

"I'm glad you did," James says, his voice quiet and gritty, eyes intense as they lock onto hers.

"You are, Sir?" She forces out, her chest constricting, can feel fluttering in her tummy – butterflies? His fingers brush hers, just for a second, her heart stutters, and then the door below them opens as a half asleep soldier heads for the john, jolts them back to reality, pulling them apart.

"Yes, you're a bloody good medic, Dawes, an asset to 2 section," James says, clearing his throat, wiping clammy hands over his trousers before he forces himself to his feet, takes a step backwards just to add a little more distance, hopes the humming in his body calms.

"Thank you, Boss," Molly smiles, despite the sudden cold front, wonders if she imagined the whole damned thing.

"Go and get some sleep, Dawes," James orders professionally, before heading to the edge of the roof.

"Yes, Sir," she nods, but doesn't move from her spot as she watches the Captain begin to descend from the roof. "Just quickly, Sir?"

"Yes, Dawes?"

"What did you say earlier? When I was, you know-?"

"What did you think I said, Dawes?"

"I don't know. I thought I heard you mention Paris, Boss."

Captain James just smiles, reveals brilliant white teeth, before hopping down and crossing the quiet camp towards his tent.


	2. Wait Out

**AN: So here's another piece, based between episode 3&4. I'm surprised we never actually got to see them discuss their feelings, how it came to them both agreeing to 'wait out'. My muse whispered this in my ear, so here it is! Probably my last one for a while, but we shall see! All rights to the BBC, as always. **

**Please read and review – it's what keeps me going!**

**Much love, **

**GB **

**XoX**

**Wait out**

_You do not involve yourselves with the locals._

_Badrai sent her to spy._

_Am I going to die?_

_Come back to me._

_Because I love you._

_Do you love me, Sir?_

Molly wakes with a start, bolts upright in her bed, legs twisted up in the army issued sleeping bag, the taffeta cold against hot skin. Her heart hammers in her chest, pounding against sternum, and sweat rolls down her neck, down her back. She tries to force down deep gulps of air as her body trembles, chest threatening to cave in, voices bouncing around her head as flashes from her nightmares scar her brain. It's not until she's untangled her legs from the polyester restraints that she begins to calm herself, piece her mind back together, brings herself back from the edge of the panic attack looming over her. She swallows against the bile clawing at her throat, can taste metal in her mouth; blood. Her tongue aches, sore as it brushes against teeth, and it takes less then a second for her to realise she must have bitten it to muffle her screams – her sub-conscience aware of her comrades sleeping even during a haunted slumber.

She casts a glance around the room, uses the moonlight filtering through the net windows to make sure she hasn't woken any of the men, is relieved to find them all sleeping soundly, faces relaxed, minds a million miles away. She swings her legs out of the bed, her skin milky in the dark room, slides her feet into her PT trainers and a long sleeved top over her head, before slipping out from the tent.

She shivers as she steps out into the silence of their quarter, the night air cold, chilling her skin. She walks with no destination in mind, the movements helping to warm her body, her exposed legs, and she tries to force back images of Sohail's beaten and broken body, Bashira's tear and dirt streaked face as she stands there with a bomb strapped to her body, the look on Captain James' face when she finally gets the balls up to confess her feelings as the threat of being red misted weighs down heavy on her shoulders. She takes to a jog, feet pounding dusty ground. The memories of Smurf getting shot, the mine almost taking both of her legs, Smurf's declaration of love and Captain James demanding she return to him, her hand in his, plague Molly's mind, and she forces her legs to work harder, the physical ache a welcome distraction from the emotional one.

She loses track of how long or how far she sprints, but by the time she stops, she finds it hard to breathe, the emotional onslaught taking as much from her as the physical exertion. She leans over, hands on knees, forces air in, air out, repeats all over again, until her heart rate has slowed, she doesn't feel like she's being strangled by an internal force. She straightens up, tilts her head back to stare at the stars, something she has already missed doing since being back in Bastion, misses her spot above the toilet block, misses the old camp. She's about to turn back, find her way back to bed, even if she knows she wont be able to sleep now that she's awake, when she looks down from the sky, spots the faint glow through the small window of the temporary building. Swallows against the lump that forms when she realises it's where _he _is, wonders why he's awake so late. She rubs a hand over her face, wipes sweat from her forehead, is tempted, only for a second to approach the building, knock on the door, shakes her head when she realises she isn't even sure what she wants to say to him, what she _should_ say, because yeah, she admitted how she felt, but he'd left it open, hadn't answered her question, even after he'd held her _like that_ after Sohail crashed at the hospital. Molly takes a deep breath, plants her hands on her hips, squeezes, fights the urge to ball them up, to rap knuckles against the door. She turns on her heel, only manages to take two paces before she hears the door opening, feet shuffling. Her heart hammers as a light trains on her, illuminates her, and then she hears it; his voice, low and rough, quiet yet demanding against the silent night.

"Dawes?"

Busted.

She turns to face him, is almost blinded by the torch in his hand, raises an arm to shield her face. He lowers it quickly, flicks the outside security light on. Her heart stammers, and she swallows against the desire that warms her body as she drinks him in; his dishevelled hair, those chiselled cheekbones, that sharp jaw shadowed by just the right amount of stubble. She bites her cheek, her tongue aching, before she clears her throat, sure that the moment of silence has been long enough to class as awkward.

"Sir," she replies, doesn't make an effort to move towards him, keeps her feet planted to the spot, because she should be heading back to bed, should be avoiding all situations that leave them alone together, needs to stay away from him because he is her _boss_.

"What are you doing up, Dawes?" He doesn't move, either. Instead, he folds his arms across his chest as curiosity knits is brows together.

"I needed a drink, Sir," Molly quickly lies, and then wishes she could kick herself, feels stupid, because the mess tent is clearly in the other direction and she doesn't even have her canteen with her. She jabs her thumb over her shoulder, "I should go -"

"I have a teabag?" It starts as a statement, but he shifts uncomfortably, like perhaps the offer would be unwelcome, and Molly takes a deep breath, tries to ignore the voice in her head telling her to turn around, to go back, to forget anything has ever happened.

"Okay," she says instead, glances around her nervously, worried in case someone sees her disappearing into her Bosses office. She hesitates for all of two seconds, long enough to quell any doubt, and then she's crossing the gap between her and the Captain, squeezing past his body in the doorway and disappearing into his small, private office.

Molly sits on the spongy, green chair – one of two in the office – watching Captain James as he fills the kettle at the small sink, already comfortable back at Bastion. He glances over at her, a hint of a smile on his lips.

"How do you take it, Dawes?"

"Milk, two sugars," she replies, rubs her hands over her legs, tries to smooth the goosebumps away, is unsuccessful despite the warmth of the office. She casts her gaze around the small, white room, isn't surprised to find it pretty bare with very little personalisation; there's a map of Bastion tacked to the wall above his desk, another of the surrounding area, a couple memo's Molly's eyes are too tired to focus on. She reaches up to scratch her nose, eyes sliding back to focus on the Boss, his muscles defined underneath the right, black t-shirt. Molly swallows.

"Here," Capt. James turns around after a few minutes of silence, a mug in each hand, one extended for Molly to take.

"Cheers, Boss," she smiles, takes the small cup and cradles it in her hands, the heat offering a little comfort, blows against the liquid gently to try and cool it quicker as James takes the seat next to her, settles back and draws one leg up to rest on the other. She twists on the chair, tucks a leg under her, skin prickles as intense brown eyes lock onto hers.

"Can't sleep?" he asks, before he sips at the coffee in his mug, and Molly knows without him telling her that it's the one she'd bought for him in London, on the promise that he'd adore her for always.

"Bad dreams," she answers honestly, tears her eyes from his, stares down into the perfectly brewed cuppa in her hands, brings the mug of hot liquid to her mouth and gingerly sips. He waits for her to elaborate, so she takes another sip before looking back at him, tries to prolong the moment with him, even if common sense tells her not to. "I can't get Sohail outta my 'ead."

"I understand," James nods, leans forward, and he smells delicious, a mix of dust and sand, body wash and deodorant. "I can refer you to talk to someone -"

"Nah, I ain't mad," Molly shakes her head quickly. "It's just been one helluva day, Sir."

"Yeah," James huffs in agreement, before he takes a deep breath, put his mug down on the table, and drops his leg, shifts to sit on the edge of his seat. "Look, Dawes -" he begins, but Molly knows where he's going, can feel it in the pit of her stomach, cuts him off before he can make this moment any more awkward.

"Forget it, Sir," she shakes her head, puts her mug down, forces a smile onto her lips as her cheeks warm. "Forget I said anything today."

"You were less than professional today," James starts anyway, and Molly cringes at the memory, at the desperation she'd felt to confess her feelings as the threat of being red misted loomed before her.

"I know, Sir, and you should have my arse for it," Molly nods, rubbing her palms against her thighs, shivers as if the temperature has suddenly stopped.

"I am the commanding officer of your platoon."

"I know."

"You can not be declaring your feelings for me on the battlefield."

"I know, I'm sorry," Molly nods, cutting him off again, desperate for the moment, the lecture, to end as a hot flush crawls up her neck, over her cheeks. Capt. James lets out a huff of air; frustration.

"God, you drive me crazy, Dawes," he grinds out, rubs a hand over his face, and Molly isn't sure what to say, because nothing makes sense to her; the way he smiles at her, the way his eyes twinkle when he looks at her, the brief touches of skin, the way he laughs at her choice of words – when she uses cockney slang even if she doesn't know what she's saying. She swallows, wonders if she's imagined it all.

"I should go," she mumbles, standing from the chair, avoids eye contact as she heads for the door. "Cheers for the brew, Boss." She reaches for the door handle, can hear him behind her, suspects he's getting up to see her out, because he's a gentleman, even in the middle of a war zone; it's one of the things Molly admires.

"Dawes," he says, his voice low, restrained, stops Molly's heart beat, stops her opening the door, hold vice like on the door handle. "Don't go."

She can feel him, standing behind her, the closeness sending a humming throughout her body, hairs on end. She closes her eyes, tries to will him away, needs her self restraint to win out, to stop her turning around and looking into those dark, chocolate eyes. His hand appears from behind her, slides down her arm leaving a hot trail in it's wake, encases her hand in his, melts her grip. She takes a deep breath, slowly turns around to face him, looks up through thick lashes to locks eyes with him, heart in her throat, thud-thudding at a rate of knots.

"I said, you drive me crazy," he repeats, his spare hand reaching up, stroking a piece of hair from her face, and Molly laughs nervously, like it's some cheesy, over clichéd movie she's in. "Are you laughing at me, Dawes?" James frowns, face moulding into hurt.

"Yes, I mean, no, Sir," she shakes her head, bites her bottom lip. "I just felt like I was in a movie, then. Sorry."

"You're infuriating," James declares, steps back from Molly, drops her hand, leaves it feeling cold.

"_I'm_ infuriating?!" Molly asks as James takes a few more steps back, puts too much distance between them. "_Me_?!"

"Yes, Dawes, you," James nods, folding his arms across his chest defensively.

"I'm not the one running hot and fucking cold!" Molly snaps, something building in her chest, something she can't put a name to, just knows that she needs to get it out, be free. "I told you I was fond of you; you know exactly how I feel! You're so back and forth, you're gonna give me fucking whiplash!" She huffs out air, fast and hot, then adds, "Sir."

"May I remind you who I am? Where we are? I'm the fucking Captain of your platoon, in the fucking British Army!" James growls, drops his arms, runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more.

"Oh, get off your high horse," Molly scoffs. "I know exactly who you are."

"_You_ are in_ my _command, Dawes. It's against Army regulations, you know that. I can't act upon any feelings -"

"So I'll leave." Molly's saying it before she can even think about it, doesn't process the words until they've left her mouth, when it's too late to take it back, shocks herself when she realises she means every damned word.

"I can't ask you -"

"You ain't asking, I'm offering," Molly interrupts stubbornly, shrugs one shoulder casually, as if she isn't discussing leaving her career so she can pursue a love life with her _boss_. James sighs, eyes tracing over her serious face, the way her mouth is set, eyes hard, like there's no room for negotiation.

"If anyone is going to be leaving, it'll be me," he says, stepping forward, closing the gap between them. "But we're not going to discuss this, not yet. Not until -"

"We're back at Brize Norton, I know," Molly finishes, bringing her hands up to rest on his chest, closes her eyes and savours the touch. Feels his body shift as he leans forward, brushes his lips against her forehead.

"So we both agree; we're waiting out."

"Yes, Sir. Waiting out." Molly sighs, wonders how long two weeks could drag out.

"You should go back to your bed, Dawes. We're starting the day with a 5k run."

"Really?" She opens her eyes, steps back to get a better look.

"Don't look at me, it was Kinders idea."

"Can't I pull a sicky, Sir?" Molly tries, relishes the smile James gives her, the way his eyes twinkle, and it's enough to prove to her she hasn't imagined it at all.

"Nice try, Private," he chuckles, lightly, before taking a deep breath, looks as if he's torn. "Seriously, you should leave. Go and get some rest." Molly nods, stifles a yawn, didn't realise how shattered she felt until he reminded her where she should be.

"Yes, Sir," She nods, smiles once, before turning to get the handle again, glances over her shoulder at him. "Night, 'en."

"Good night, Molly."

Her heart skips a beat, her name sounding so much better when it comes from his mouth.

She runs all the way back to her tent, doesn't bother to kick her shoes off before she collapses onto her bed, falls asleep almost immediately.

The nightmares don't return.


	3. Say Something

**AN: Just a quick ficlet that came to me whilst catching my girl up on the series. Based during episode 3, after Captain James finds out she visited Newport and before he finds the sleeve of Rosabaya pods on his pillow. **

**Unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own.**

**Please read and review! **

**Lacey**

**xox**

**Say Something**

Molly leans back against the portable, wooden table, idly stirring the teabag in the plastic, disposable cup. Her eyes are fixed on the boiling liquid, swirling round and round, but her mind is anywhere but here.

Nothing makes sense; everything has been turned upside down in a matter of a few hours, gone to shit since arriving back. She can't help but tell herself it's because she left, went home to the UK, left her section, her family, fighting in a damn war zone whilst she and Smurf shared their R&R.

She's too involved.

She hears about it all the time on the TV, or she did, anyway; soldiers suffering PTSD committing suicide, or just taking off and leaving their wives and kids behind, losing their homes or ending up being locked away in jail for a crime they shouldn't have committed. They blame the war zone, the things they have to do and what they've suffered through, and Molly gets it, she does. She wonders if they are the ones who meet and get involved with other Bashira's, if their comrades fuck everything up by declaring their love for them, if they've developed feelings they can't quite explain for someone they know they can't have. She snorts, scoffing at her own mind, because something like that could only happen to Molly Dawes.

She looks up from the hot drink, spots Captain James stepping away from the gun locker having just finished his lookout post, and she knows he's about two minutes away from passing out in his tent. She pushes her cup onto the table before stepping away from the small canopy, chases after the CO.

"Sir?" She says, and he turns to look at her, brow furrowed, the puzzlement at her being awake so late evident on his face.

"Dawes."

"Can I have a word, please?" She asks, and he's looking at her with those dark eyes, the same one's she'd remembered during her trip back to the UK, had seen every time she'd closed her eyes. He flicks his gaze around the sleeping camp, and then he nods once, before he's turning on his heel and heading back towards the medic tent. She follows after him, almost needs to take to a jog to keep up with his long strides, almost crashes into him as he stops abruptly, spins to face her, the door flapping gently in the night breeze behind them.

Silence settles around them as they both stand there facing each other, waiting for the other to speak first, the moon the only source of light as it filters through the small gap in the unzipped door. He's looking at her, eyes focused solely on her face, and she shifts on her feet, her confidence wavering under the intensity of his stare. The tension is so thick, it could be physical – like walking through treacle, Molly would say if she could find her voice, but she can't because he's right there, smelling of dust and sweat and an aftershave she can't name but adores.

He clears his throat, jolts Molly from her thoughts.

"So, uh, I came back," she eventually says, weakly, and the brow of his forehead slips into a frown, his eyes tracing her features, and Molly can't get a read on him. It's only been two weeks, but in the UK the fourteen days had felt like fourteen weeks, and it feels like it's just been too long since she's seen him last, like she's forgotten how to be around him, like he's a long lost friend she can't quite remember.

"You didn't really have a choice, Dawes," he replies, clipped and professional. Molly shifts on the spot, hasn't heard that tone since they'd last been in Brize Norton, and she'd laughed at his use of the word 'cockwomble'. She waits for his face to crinkle, for the mouth to tilt into a smile, but it doesn't; it stays frozen, blank.

"Oh, I -" she stumbles, racking her brain for something to say, comes up with nothing, because this isn't the way she'd imagined this conversation going.

"Is there something you wanted?" he asks, his hands untucking from his vest and coming to rest at his hips, thumb hooking through belt loops.

"No, I just...I thought -" she trails off, has never been one to have trouble with words, unless you count using too many of them, _all of the time_.

"You should finish up here, then hit the sack, Dawes."

Molly tries not to cringe, is sure she can feel the ground between them crumble, give way to form a massive crater, a sink hole gaping the distance between them, but when she blinks and clears her throat, there's nothing there, just her and the Captain standing a few feet apart on very solid ground.

"Right," she nods, tears her eyes away from his as she looks over the last shelf she was still yet to pack, the air getting thicker, like it may suffocate her, the words she'd wanted to say bouncing around her head. He steps out of her line of sight, heads for the tent door flapping slightly in the night breeze. Molly sighs, wonders how she always manages to fuck up the male relationships in her life, even the one between her and Smurf. In fact, if it wasn't for the sleeve of Columbian coffee she'd placed on his pillow less than ten minutes ago, and the warm patch of skin where 'Rosabaya' is barely visible, she'd be able to convince herself she'd imagined the whole damn thing. "Wait," she says, turns to look at him, a hint of relief teasing her chest as he stops, hand gripping the edge of the flap. His head bows, but he doesn't turn to face her. She takes a deep breath. "Nothing happened," she reiterates again, despite what 2section believe. "With Smurf," just in case there was any doubt to what she was referring to.

"It's none of my business," Captain James says, sounds resigned, and he still wont face her, wont give away the emotions on his face, in his eyes.

"But it is," she says, because he was the one that broke the barriers first, removed her walls, held onto her hand and brushed his thumb over her skin, had ordered _she_ come back to _him_. "I didn't...we didn't...Smurf's _just_ my mate."

"Dawes -" Tone clipped, low, a warning.

"Don't you 'Dawes' me, like I'm over stepping the mark," she huffs. "I didn't want to go. You _ordered_ me to leave, and now you're acting like I'm some sort of leper, because you're jealous."

"Dawes -" Tired, accepting, guilty.

"You asked me to come back, _to you_, and I did. I'm here, and you're...you're not_ here_." She takes a deep breath, hand smoothing over braided hair. "Well, you're here, but you're not...you know what I mean." She huffs, watches as his shoulders slump, even under the heavy tactical vest, and she thinks she's broken down his barriers, but then his back is straightening, and he's glancing over his shoulder at her.

"Zero six hundred hours, Dawes. Be ready."

And then he's walking out the door, leaving Molly behind, staring after him.


End file.
